A Life for a Life by Lynda McDaniel (best selling autobiographies .txt) 📖

We didn’t learn anything new from Gregg that evening. He was so in the dark, we actually brought him news. I was glad we could lend a little moral support, but that was about all we could do in five minutes. Brower was being a stickler.

Standing outside the jail, Cleva and I decided to go out to dinner. We didn’t have a lot of choices in town, so we ended up at Adam’s Rib. I wasn’t in the mood for the special—baby-back ribs, home fries and beans—and apparently Cleva wasn’t either. We both ordered salads, though Iceberg lettuce and wan hothouse tomatoes weren’t enough to call dinner. We added one order of barbecued chicken.

“Honey, that man looks devastated. I hope he doesn’t have to spend much time in that jail.  Brower must be loving this. He’s always been sorta jealous of Gregg.”

“Jealous? Or just on a power trip?”

“Both, probably. But I think he might be jealous of the way folks naturally enjoy Gregg but not him. People like that are sad—like a kid watching others play but not knowing how to join. They jump in and next thing you know, they’ve started a fight.”

“Well, I don’t care about Brower’s sad upbringing. Like Freud said, sometimes an asshole is just an asshole.”

She chuckled. “Even I know that’s not quite how he put it, but I get your point. Let’s drop that and talk about you. You seem kind of jumpy.”

“Sure, aren’t you? The injustice that Gregg, of all people, would be wrestled out of a meeting and thrown in jail?”

“I don’t mean that. Yep, I’m pissed off about what’s happened to Gregg, but I’ve never seen you so alive. So, so—as the kids say, in a groove.”

I stopped mid-bite and put my drumstick down. I wiped barbecue sauce from my face, more for time to think than good manners. She was right. I was getting to work again at what I’d spent my whole adult life doing: interviewing people, digging deeply into a story, and even sometimes righting injustices. Being a journalist had been exciting, especially in D.C., where the culprits I dealt with were often players in the biggest show in the world.

“I guess you’re right,” I said. “This is what I used to do, and it made life interesting.”

“Past tense?”

“Oh, let’s not go there.”

“Okay, but there’s something else. I mean, you seemed kind of jangled. Obsessed even.”

Dammit, Cleva could see through a blackout curtain. I’d recently realized that my dogged search was fueled, in part, by a memory—and a load of guilt—from a tragedy a year earlier. “Well, there is something else,” I said.

After a long silence, Cleva said, “And?”

“Someone killed herself, in front of me. She’d been depressed for a while, and I’d been a pretty loyal neighbor and friend. I didn’t abandon her when she got in dark moods. I stuck around, including some harrowing evenings listening to her rant. But it wasn’t all bad—we’d had some fun times, too. Then one night she had me over for dinner and started telling me what a shit I was. I should have known it was the depression talking, but I decided to try some tough love. I told her she needed to get more help. She’d refused drugs, and for a while, that made sense. I mentioned that she might want to try a prescription, just short term to help her out while she worked on her issues. I added that she couldn’t go on the way she was living. She ran from the living room into her kitchen, dumped the spaghetti sauce and pasta and boiling water on to the floor, grabbed a kitchen knife, and shouted, ‘You’re right. I can’t go on like this.’ The slashes she made were the serious kind, right down both arms. I called 911, but she bled out before they arrived.”

Everything tumbled out so fast, all Cleva could muster was, “Oh, I see.” She sipped her iced tea, gathering her thoughts. Finally, she said, “Honey, that makes sense, what you said about redeeming the past. The way I see it, life’s built on our past, though we can’t stay mired in it. We’ve got to move on. But you couldn’t not have seen that scene in your head. I’m sorry you’ve had that happen—twice.”

“Thanks, Cleva.” I looked around for the waiter; I needed something stronger than tea. After he brought me a beer, I took a drink and went on. “As long as I’m spilling my guts, I want you to know that my interesting life is not past tense. Yes, I’ve had an exciting life, maybe too exciting. I was ready for a change, which is why I moved here. Then along comes something big again, and I’ll admit, it does feel good to be in that groove again. But you know, the store keeps me on my toes, too—ordering and maintaining inventory is a juggling act. And customer service is a new challenge for me.” I tried to chuckle, but it caught in my throat. I drank more beer and continued. “Fortunately, the real jerks in town don’t come in, not even for beer. I think they’re pissed that I won’t sell tobacco, which in North Carolina is worse than burning the flag. But I love folks like you and Abit and Myrtle and Roy and ...”

Cleva interrupted. “You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

“You’re good, Cleva, but this time you’re not one-hundred percent right. Sometimes I do have to give myself a pep talk, but right now, sitting here with you, eating terrific North Carolina barbecue, even the Iceberg lettuce tastes good.”

“Good to hear. I’m feeling mighty fine about your sitting here, too. Now, what kind of pie should we order?”

Chapter 42: Abit

Duane and me and the Rollin’ Store were on the road by seven-thirty. Over a couple of weeks, we’d gotten our act together—refilling the paper bag bins when we got back from a run, restocking inventory Tuesday evening, and such as that. That cut down on time we needed Wednesday mornings before we rolled out. I felt useful for the first time in my life.

Otherwise, everything else exciting had slowed to a crawl. Nobody was running into the store with the latest news or sitting outside the store with me, hoping to pick up on some gossip about Gregg.

Speaking of Gregg, he was out on bail. Della explained that a lot of accused murderers weren’t allowed out, but Gregg weren’t likely to skip town and didn’t have no record. The Forest Service got him a lawyer from Asheville, Alfred Bonner, and he got the judge to agree to bail. No one who really knew Gregg for a minute thought he’d killed that girl, except maybe Brower. Oh, and them militia guys. I heard Roger Turbin talking about how they was glad it were a gov’ment man in jail. (That was how they said it—gov’ment. Even I knowed better than that, and I only finished fifth grade.)

Della wouldn’t let it rest, though. Even Cleva told her to slow down. I’d been thinking Cleva enjoyed the chase as good as Della (not that enjoyed were the right way to put it). But Della said it was in her blood—like a bloodhound—ever since she spent so much time writing stories. And every time she was about to give up, something would happen. Like the call she got from Lucy’s sister, asking if Gregg were the killer. That put her right back on the track of the killer. The way I saw it, she liked the truth and went after it. Maybe that’s why she liked me. I’d almost always told the truth. I reckoned I weren’t smart enough to tell believable lies.

Chapter 43: Della

After Gregg was arrested, the calls stopped. To some, that pointed another finger at Gregg, but I still didn’t believe it. More likely the guilty party felt the heat was off.

I kept trying to help Gregg, but he just walked around in a daze, unable to fathom how his life had turned into such a nightmare. I invited him over for dinner so we could talk about a plan of attack. He arrived looking rumpled, as though he’d slept in his clothes. Maybe he had, or maybe I was so accustomed to seeing him in his crisp uniform, the faded flannel shirt and jeans looked odd on him. We each had a beer, and when Gregg asked for another one, I handed it to him and said, “I want you to help me find out what really happened.”

“That would look bad,” he said, taking a long pull. I didn’t follow his logic, and told him so. “Dammit, Della, I can’t go around the county quizzing people and acting like a law officer. Besides, everyone is looking at me like I’m some mad rapist and murderer. I appreciate what you’re doing, Della. I really do. But if you want to be effective, you don’t want me along.” He rubbed his face; the three-day growth probably itched like crazy.

“Okay, so maybe you don’t go up to the door, but you could go along. Keep me safe.” I was trying every angle I could think of.

“You’ll be safer without me. All those Green Treatise idiots have poisoned everyone against me.” Before I’d found Lucy’s body in that cove, what felt like years ago, I’d never heard Gregg swear beyond the occasional hell or damn. His nerves were shot. I decided to let my idea drop.

We managed to enjoy the